


91 Days: Finding Purgatory

by Cal_reflector



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cal_reflector/pseuds/Cal_reflector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They survived. Fio comes home, where Angelo waits. Scarred and burdened with unspeakable secrets, who will they live for now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

1\. Homecoming.

Fio watched the Great Plains roll by. It was the dead of winter, the sky and earth bare and gray. The train's whistle echoed in the carriage before racing and fading into the horizon.

She was going home.

Three months, ninety-one days. A life can change in ninety-one days. Three months ago she wed. A month ago she became a widow. Last week, she miscarried. It was not uncommon, but she wondered if this was not divine retribution.

The morning after she buried her unborn child she boarded a train at Chicago Union Station. No one from her husband's family came to see her off. They always suspected the circumstances of Ronaldo's death. They held _her_ family responsible. They blamed _her_ for losing two of their sons.

_If only she told them the truth._

She was tempted, a few times, when things became unbearable, just so she could see their faces. So everything could end.

But then everyone would have died. Her father, Nero, Uncle Gonzo... It hadn't mattered, what she did, what she failed to do. In the end, she lost everyone she tried to protect.

"Mrs. Galassia?" The attendant-he could have been Frate's age-knocked before opening. "We'll be arriving in Lawless soon."

Fio touched the shallow depression on her ring finger.

"Vanetti, please. That is my name."

"Yes Ma'am."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She had a feeling she had been here before: The two of them standing on the station platform, facing each other, dressed for mourning. They were still dressed for mourning.

She saw his suit was a nicer cut, even with one arm in a sling. When the Galassia sent twenty soldiers and their top gunman to take control of Lawless, Avilio was the one who formed an alliance with Fango. Two days and twenty-three bodies later, the terrified survivors—sans the gunman—were sent back to Chicago with lasagna and a message: _Vivi e lascia vivere_. The truce has held since.

Her father, brother, and uncle did not survive. The remaining men—those able-bodied who had not fled—chose Avilio to be acting don.

"Welcome home, Miss." He frowned when he saw she brought two suitcases, but tried anyways, not successfully. "My apologies, we are…" He grunted as he tried to grab both handles at once. "…Shorthanded at the moment."

His neck began to turn red. She chuckled, unable to help herself. "Come on, I'll help."

_~To be Continued~_


	2. "I Ain't Got Nobody"

  1. **"I Ain't Got Nobody"**



Bulbs suspended from the ceiling illuminated rows of crates stacked three high. Avilio walked between them as his consigliere followed. "Give me the numbers."

Barbero opened a leather-bound ledger. "We make two hundred gallons a day, six days a week. Nine bottles, fifty-five dollars a crate, five hundred crates a week. We sell everything fast as we can make them."

"Expenses?"

He turned over a page. "Currently we have forty-seven on the payroll. Workers, drivers, soldiers and sundry associates… twenty-five hundred dollars a week. Grain, fuel, other inputs, another twenty-five hundred. After transport, bribes, and support for our widows, we bring in just over twenty-thousand a week."

"Hmph." Avilio touched the Del Monte logo emblazoned on the side of a crate, the paint still damp. "Add a hundred a week for Corteo's mother."

"Yes, boss." Barbero made the note and closed the book. "There have been reports that some unscrupulous speakeasies have been diluting our product, to stretch their supply."

"Send someone to warn them."

"Done, but they'll just raise prices instead. The problem is we can't meet demand."

"Fine, we'll build more stills." The blueprints were secure in the family compound's safe, a final parting gift from his friend. "Anything else?"

"No, though I thought you'd be pleased. You're a rich man; soon, maybe the wealthiest in the state."

Avilio walked out of the warehouse. Riches were not what he set out to accomplish.

They drove back towards Lawless, Avilio at the wheel. The young man cursed when snow from a tree dropped onto the middle of road. "How is the princess doing?"

"Well enough, visiting the families, the hospital. Everyone is glad she's back. A lot of the older guys watched her grow up." Barbero poured coffee from a thermos while keeping a close eye on his boss' driving. "And all the young guys were at least a little in love with her."

Avilio smirked. "Even you?"

Barbero smiled conspiratorially. "Perhaps, but to touch the Don's daughter would've been death."

"Which is what happened to Ronaldo."

"True, as it turned out. May he rot in hell."

They drove on, saying no more for the next ten miles, the space filled by the sound of the engine and the snow crunching beneath the tires. Among the living, they alone knew the truth about Fio's late husband. The tacit understanding that they would never speak of it helped cement their partnership in the darkest hour, when it seemed the family would disintegrate after the Don and Nero's death.

Avilio's thoughts returned to the young woman who had lately been occupying his mind: The daughter of his father's murderer, the last member of the family who destroyed his.

"How did Fio feel, being married off to the Galassias?"

_Like tribute?_

"The Don wished it. She accepted, like a good daughter. But…" Barbero looked straight ahead as Lawless gradually came into view. "Nero tried to talk her out of it, even made plans to send her to college in Boston. She said no. She was determined to help the family."

The turned onto the road that led to the family compound. Barbero grimaced, tossing the stale, bitter brew out the window. "It was a terrible fucking waste."

xxxxxxxxxx

Fio lay in bed, her face buried in the sheets. She felt drained but better, finally able to cry after returning to be among friends, her people.

Over the past few days she visited families of men killed during Nero and Frate's feud and the even bloodier war that followed. Many were friends, people she knew. Together they mourned their fathers, husbands, brothers, sons. They comforted her, promised prayers for her family, her lost baby. They told her she was still young; she was sure to find a new husband and be blessed with more children.

Fio just smiled. She was certain there would not be another.

She raised herself by her elbows, looking around. The day she came home, she was relieved to find they had prepared her old bedroom rather than the one she and Ronaldo had shared. She was not ready.

Her bedroom was the same as she left it three months ago. The shelves held her precious library: Louisa May Alcott, Henry James, Fitzgerald, Cooper, Austen, Whitman. Paintings she had done adorned the walls along with photos of her mother and their family.

Her gaze shifted to the picture frame sitting on her desk. It was her wedding day. She stood between her brothers, all of them in an embrace, all smiling gaily. It was the last picture they took together.

The room was the same, but everything else had changed.

She was startled awake by the clock striking. While she dozed day had turned to evening. Outside the snow resumed, and the mansion was silent.

The silence filled her with indescribable fear; fear of the future, of life alone in an empty home.

Fio hated the silence.

She stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly, and was about to head downstairs when she heard a faint sound from the direction of her father's study.

It sounded like music.

She stood outside the study, hesitating, unsure what she might find, whether she was imagining things; if she was going mad.

She turned the knob.

The chair behind her father's desk from where he conducted most business was empty. Avilio occupied one of the visitor's chair, putting aside a tome and rising as she walked in. "Miss Vanetti."

"Avilio."

From an ornate wooden cabinet standing along the wall, the low voice of a woman crooned about longing and disappointment.

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, I just..." She gestured towards the radio. "I heard, so I thought I might find someone here."

"I see." Under Avilio's searching gaze, Fio became conscious of how she must have appeared, red-eyed and rumpled from crying to sleep in her dress. "This is your home. You are mistress of this house. I only stayed in order to put the family's affairs in order, and will not impose on you any longer than necessary."

"Are you leaving us?"

"I..."

"Please stay." Panic gripped her as the dread from earlier returned. "Please. It's... too quiet, this house. It used to be full of people, life, and now it's a..."

She held herself as if she were cold; freezing. She looked up, pleading with him with her eyes.

Avilio nodded uncomfortably. "... I was about to say I would take up lodgings in town, but if you'll have me, I would be grateful to accept your offer."

So they became housemates.

_~To be Continued~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Researching the Prohibition just before the Great Depression has been fun, and where possible I've tried to work in details from the era. This chapter's title is a hit song from around that time, when jazz musicians and blues singers were making waves on the new medium of radio.


	3. Warmth

  1. **Warmth.**



Fio watched Avilio’s predicament unfold from across the table. He could hardly finish half the food on his plate before the cook—a stout, barrel-chested woman they called Nonna—piled on more.

“Eat.” She commanded. “Disgraceful. So skinny! Like twig. We must fatten you or people say I bad cook.”

Avilio pushed around the sausage, peppers, and eggplant. “I’m full.”

“That is joke? I no laugh.”

The acting don for the Vanetti Family sighed. Fio passed him a napkin-covered basket. “More bread?”

She smiled innocently when he made a face that said _Et tu, Brutus?_ But his revenge came swiftly. “You lost weight since we last met. Didn’t they feed you in Chicago?”

“Yes. Poor girl. You eat too. Di Piu!” Nonna moved to the other side of the table with her pan. “So thin. Tsk tsk. Men like women with some meat. Like me!”  

Avilio smirked. Fio raised her brows. “Nonna, what are we having for desert?”

“Ah! New recipe I clip from papers, is pineapple upside down cake. Deliziosissima.”

The young man’s smirk vanished. Fio feigned disappointment as she continued. “That sounds wonderful, but since Avilio says he’s full, we’ll just have to save it for tomorrow.”

Avilio glared at her, then at the food left on his plate, swallowed at the thought of pineapple cake, and resumed eating.

She beamed. If there’s one thing Fio learned growing up, it was how to get boys to eat their vegetables.

XXXXXX

Barbero knocked on the steel double doors. A moment later the grille slid open and he found himself regarded suspiciously by a pair of grey-green eyes. “We don’t need no insurance.”

He smiled. “I’m not an insurance salesman. Is the proprietor in?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Barbero. I represent the Vanetti Family.”

They were taken to the manager’s office, with a bird’s-eye view of the stage and dance floor below. A polished bar counter ran along the length of the mahogany-paneled room. Waiters spread fresh linen over tables in preparation of the evening service. Tigre whistled. “Swanky. Didn’t know Lawless had a joint like this.”

“Gentlemen!” A man in a white dinner jacket and a receding hairline strode in, arms extended. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Mr. Donavon. This is a marvelous establishment you have here.” Barbero shook the man’s hand, noting the clamminess. “I’m sorry I did not stop by sooner.”

The club owner laughed too loudly. “Come by any time, everything on the house!” Barbero’s smile was a thin line that did not reach his eyes. Donavon stopped laughing. “So, eh, how can I help you?”

“You’ve been mixing other makers’ dross with our product and selling it as Lawless Heaven.” Barbero spoke evenly, enunciating clearly. “We ship you five crates a week, during which you pour triple that amount.”

“That’s… that’s… we had left over stock.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Mr. Donavon. We have witnesses.”

“I’ll make it up to you, right away, I swear!” The balding man began to perspire profusely. “Does... does Don Bruno know?”

“He does.” The consigliere watched the blood drain from the man’s face as he slid into a chair. “He is displeased, but understands we are partly responsible for the shortage, which is why he sent me instead of our other associates.”

Donavon looked at Barbero with a glimmer of hope. “What must I do?”

“Don Bruno wishes to become business partners. The family will take a stake in this establishment for fair consideration. We will then prioritize supply here over other speakeasies. Everybody wins.”

Barbero took a typed contract from his briefcase and set it down. The club owner wavered, droplets staining the front of his shirt. His eyes bulged when Tigre reached inside his coat… and withdrew a pen, which he uncapped and placed on top of the contract.

“Thank you, Tigre.” The bespectacled man folded his hands, returning his attention to the quaking man. “Mr. Donavon, my current boss is a persuasive man. He persuaded the federal prosecutor to go home. He _persuaded_ the Galassias to stay out of Lawless. The few he couldn’t persuade are in the ground.”

“You seem like a reasonable man.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She found Avilio asleep in an armchair facing the fireplace, his feet propped on top of the ottoman. Carefully, she removed his shoes and returned with a blanket, covering him up to his chin. Then she sat in the opposite chair and studied him, his fine features illuminated by the quietly crackling flames.

She was fascinated by how different he looked asleep. Without his brows knotted in a constant glower he looked his age; two years her junior, yet already the toast and terror of Lawless. 

He had driven her to Midnight Mass earlier. When they arrived she stood a ways away as others were welcomed in by greeters. Eventually people stopped arriving and she heard the hymns begin. Her cheeks went numb from the cold. Still she did not enter.

She felt him dust the snow from her shoulders. Avilio led her toward the entrance, and when she hesitated he turned back to her. “You’ll freeze out here.”

Fio looked at the ground and the mess of footprints. “Maybe that’s what I deserve.”

They stood there in the darkness, their breaths briefly visible as puffs of white. He didn’t let go of her hand. “If church was reserved only for the blameless, no one would go.”

So they went together.

Back home, she reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “…Thank you.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Something tickled his nose. When he turned to his side, the annoyance followed until… “aaaaaahhhhhHHCHOOO!”

He blinked awake groggily and saw that it was day. All the curtains were drawn back to reveal a pristine snow had fallen overnight. Through the window he spotted several men busy shoveling out the driveway. In the background the mansion bustled with activity and the air was filled with an aroma of spices and baking. Fio stood over him, a green apron tied around her waist and a smile on her face. “Good morning, Avilio, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas…” He was surprised to find the blanket, looked up and narrowed his eyes at the feather duster in her hand. “Could you have wakened me another way?”

“Nonna offered me her rolling pin. I doubt you’d have liked that.”

The cook came up to the pair, flour-covered hands brandishing the aforementioned instrument. “Finally. Up, up! So much to do and this _buono a nulla_ lies around like a log, getting in everyone’s away.” The old woman turned to Fio. “See how you spoil him?”

Fio pulled him to his feet and smoothed out some creases in his shirt before urging him upstairs. “Come on. The guests will arrive soon.”

_To be Continued._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Episode 8 was shocking and fantastic. This show just doesn't let up. Even though this story is a mid-series departure AU, I still want to keep it as close to canon as possible. Thus I find myself hedging about the fate of characters, since you never know who will survive until the end of the series.
> 
> I'm fairly sure Fio is a year or two older than Avilio/Angelo? That just makes them cuter. Also; the recipe for pineapple upside down cake does appear to have become popular/published in the mid-1920s.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: 91 Days has been a great series so far. Fast paced early Prohibition Mafia revenge tale? Yes please. Episode seven inspired me so I had to write something, which I aim to keep short and sweet like the series.
> 
> Given the mid-series point of departure it is unlikely this will conform to canon. Instead, like the summary says, it's my vision of what Fio and Angelo's story could be if they survive.


End file.
